The Diamond Of the Damned

 

T

he rain fell in silver threads over the glittering glass dome of the International Gem Expo. Beneath the floodlights and velvet ropes stood the world’s largest diamond—an oval stone larger than a hen’s egg, glowing with a pale blue hue. It was known as "The Soul of Nyanga", a gem so rare it had its own mythos. Cameras clicked, guests murmured in awe, and security officers watched like hawks. Among them, the diamond’s owner, Sir Reginald Cavendish, beamed with pride.

And then, the lights went out.

A single gunshot shattered the silence.

When the backup lights flickered on, the glass case was shattered, the diamond gone—and Cavendish lay face-down in a pool of blood.

Three hours later, Zane Faulkner stood in the middle of the crime scene, twirling a half-melted mint between his fingers. His signature long black overcoat was still damp from the rain, but his expression was dryly amused. Eli hovered nearby, already nervous.

"Remind me again," Eli whispered, "why do rich people keep putting priceless gems in public shows?"

"Because rich people have egos," Zane replied, crouching by the broken case. "And egos, my friend, are the easiest thing to kill."

Lyra joined them, tablet in hand. "I scanned the footage before the blackout," she said. "There was no breach. No one touched the case. It’s like the diamond vanished on its own."

Zane smirked. "Which means someone didn’t steal it. They summoned it."

Eli blinked. "That’s not comforting."

Further investigation revealed an odd trail—an obscure symbol engraved into the velvet, barely visible: a spiral with claw marks. Zane's face changed slightly. "We’re not just dealing with theft. We’re dealing with origin."

He turned to Lyra. "Pull records of diamond’s discovery. Coordinates, origin mine, cultural links."

She nodded. "Already running it. Wait... Zane, it says the diamond was originally found in the Nyanga region of Central Africa. There’s a tribe there—the M’Wari—who claim the stone holds the 'spirit of the land'."

Zane's grin faded. "Looks like our killer didn’t just want the diamond. He wanted it back."

The trail led them to the heart of the Nyanga jungle. Helicopters were refused. The local government issued warnings. "Too dangerous. Too cursed. No one returns."

Naturally, Zane insisted on going.

The jungle welcomed them like a beast opening its jaws. Thick vines, buzzing insects, oppressive humidity—and the faint sense they were being watched.

Eli struggled from day one. Scratches, fever, exhaustion.

"This place hates me," he muttered.

Zane, in contrast, seemed untouched—calm, alert, amused. He would walk ahead, slicing vines with a small blade, his coat somehow spotless, his hair perfectly tousled. He never once looked tired.

Lyra watched him, increasingly fascinated. "You’re not even sweating. How?"

"Detachment," Zane said lightly. "The mind is stronger than the body."

But when they reached the ancient stone altar in the jungle’s center, even Zane grew serious.

The altar bore the same spiral symbol—and fresh blood.

From the shadows stepped a tall figure, dark-skinned, tattooed in tribal ink. He spoke in English.

"You seek the soul of the land."

Zane didn't flinch. "I seek justice. The man you killed—Reginald Cavendish. Why?"

The man’s voice was calm. "He took what belonged to us. That stone was not his to display. He stole it. We took it back."

Eli hissed. "So he admits it."

Zane raised a hand. "You murdered him."

The man didn’t deny it. "He defiled a sacred thing."

Zane’s voice changed. Softer. "So you chose vengeance. Blood for stone."

There was silence. Then—

"The stone is cursed," the man said. "It binds whoever possesses it. Your tycoon was already dying. We just helped."

Zane walked slowly to the altar. He saw the diamond, resting atop the stone—glowing faintly.

He picked it up.

Immediately, the jungle fell silent. Even the insects stopped.

Zane turned. His eyes glowed faintly—not with magic, but with rage.

"You used a curse as an excuse."

His voice deepened, cold, growling. Even Lyra took a step back. Eli dropped his bag.

Zane’s smile was gone. His eyes burned red like blood.

"You could have exposed Cavendish. Reported him. Brought international pressure. But you chose to play god."

He stepped forward. The man tried to speak—but froze when Zane’s hand pressed the diamond to his chest.

"This belongs to the earth. Not to you."

He turned and threw the diamond back onto the altar.

Then in a flash, he moved—and with precise, calculated brutality—knocked the man unconscious.

Back at camp, Lyra approached Zane. "You okay?"

He had returned to his usual self—soft smile, relaxed posture, sleeves rolled up.

"Of course," he said. "Just needed to let something out."

Eli was still pale. "Next time we go treasure hunting, can we pick something not haunted?"

Zane chuckled. "You mean boring? Never."

On the flight back, Lyra finally asked: "Why didn’t you take the diamond? You could’ve returned it to the British Museum. Or the UN."

Zane looked out the window, then replied:

"Some things aren't meant to be owned. Only respected."

He paused.

"And some curses... are better left where they began."

The jungle faded into clouds behind them.

The Soul of Nyanga had returned to its silence.

And Zane Faulkner smiled again.